Holding Hands
by Averse
Summary: There was no holding hands with Gregory House. There were no whispers of sweet nothings, no quixotic picnics in the park. One Shot, House&Cameron.


**Author's note: Alrighty...I've been out of it for _quite_ some while, eh? Now I'm back in a completely new genre. Ohnoes. I apologize for this fic, though -- I had it outlined, and then half way through made some errors I'm too lazy to correct which led to...the beginning not fitting. OO;; It's decent though. Sware it. I had a bizarre pronoun fetish while writing this, haha. Tell me if I should write more. :3**

There was no holding hands with Gregory House.

There were no whispers of sweet nothings, no quixotic picnics in the park. There were no perfect moments when time seemed to stand still—no fireworks, no tenderness. There were no declarations of undying love. There were no promises of commitment. There was no future in him. There was no kind, saccharine warmth that let her know he cared. There were no public displays of affection; there was no shouting it from the roof tops. There were no romantic evenings, no waking up wrapped in a loving embrace. There was no surge of kindliness, no radiating happiness.

But still she stayed.

He didn't let anybody know about their relationship. Not Wilson. Not Cuddy. Not Chase. Not Foreman. Sometimes she even wondered if _he_ knew. He never took her for a spontaneous, romantic excursion in an attempt to sweep her off of her feet—he never did anything, really. He didn't put any effort into it. He didn't make sure she felt comfortable or loved every minute. He didn't even pester her for details when she was down. He was cold and distant, bitter and cynical. He was Gregory House.

And you couldn't hold hands with Gregory House.

Still yet there were little things. Like the tiniest threads in a greater portrait he wove them into their everyday lives. He didn't fight her on her diagnostic ideas anymore. He questioned her briskly and then sent her on her way. If she was right, he gave her a nod. It was his way of patting her on the back. She in return smiled thinly and averted her eyes, turning her attention to something else. If she was wrong he gave her that same, jaded nod and she smiled an even thinner grin and nodded back. It was there way of communicating—it was _his_ way of communicating. Of letting her know things had changed.

Sometimes it wasn't enough, though.

Sometimes in the elevator, if they were alone, he would chat almost affably until the tell-tale click of clanging doors; then he would shut down again. If they were in the elevator with others, he would lean just close enough that the back of his hand brushed hers as they stood. She wouldn't look at him. He wouldn't look at her. But they both knew it wasn't accidental. Sometimes he would stay later at night, just to catch a fleeting glimpse of his diligent duckling working hard and late—he would see her. She would see him. They would both nod that same, weary motion, and then go their separate ways. Sometimes he would come in early because he knew she would be there. Sometimes he let her get him coffee because he knew it gave her purpose.

And sometimes it felt like enough.

It was enough when he leaned over her as she sat looking at a microscope. His breath would tickle her ear; his arms would be on either side of her in an almost protective, yet confining, arch. She wouldn't move, he wouldn't move. But when it became more suspicious than natural he would pull away and neither of them would mention it ever again. It was enough when he found some warped way to make the team stay and work during lunch—he would sit next to her, and occasionally, make conversation that bordered on small talk. Caustic, warped small talk. But it was there. It was enough.

It was enough until she began to feel empty.

She felt as if he had broken off a small chunk of himself and given it to her to hold in her pocket, keep close to her heart. She had jumped right in. She had given him her whole self. And suddenly she felt like a shell, watching him hold her whole being in the palm of his hand whilst she had only a tiny fraction of him. Like a souvenir from vacation. Only this wasn't even tangible. This a small piece of the glass wall that was built so guardedly over his heart—translucent, airy, fleeting. And sometimes her shard of Gregory House seemed so small and useless in comparison to what she had given him.

She became bitter.

His small gestures of veiled fondness paled in comparison to her own attempts at saving their dying relationship. Their conversations were terse and laconic, for he restrained himself from scathing remarks, bridled his acerbity. It aggravated her. He was like a small child reaching out a frail hand—his hesitance angered her.

And that's when they argued.

That was what things went awry. When his meagre notions failed to satisfy and he attempted to compensate by adding sugar to his words—but she didn't want it. It wasn't House. It wasn't him. And after they argued, after they screamed and yelled, after he treated her like dirt for the next week at work, she realized that this was the way it would have to be.

Because she wanted _him_.

She didn't want him to change for her, despite his own protests on the matter. And if he suddenly became a knight in shining armor, he would loose his appeal. Perhaps he was right. Perhaps she wanted somebody damaged. But not for his theorized reasons—he said she wanted to fix him. But he was wrong. She enjoyed his sarcasm, his wit, the challenge that he presented. She wouldn't have applied for a job under the control of a notoriously difficult doctor if she hadn't wanted the challenge. But when she applied she hadn't imagined that the challenges he posed to her would not be mental. They were utterly emotional—utterly personal.

But nothing was personal with Gregory House.

And so they were stuck in a stalemate. She craving more of him, more from him, and him unwilling to give it. She was unable to leave him. He was unable to chase her away. They went back and forth—subtle, anger, nothing. It was a vicious cycle. She knew it too well.

She knew they were no good for eachother.

He was old, cynical, detached, and sardonic. She was young, optimistic, open, and kind. They were like two parts of one person whose personality had not found them whole. They opposed eachother like fire and water, like night and day—and in their dissonant symmetry they found solace. They completed eachother. He was the ying to her yang. He was the quid to her quo. And so she couldn't do anything about it. She couldn't break the cycle, couldn't shatter the mold.

Through this was forged acrimony. She was unwilling to admit that perhaps he was right. Perhaps he was wrong for her, that she only wanted him because he was what she had never had. She had had death. And he was life. He infuriated her with his tedious process of one step forwards, two steps back. With his aloofness. Her own inability to read him infuriated her—his ability to read her made her crazy with anger and resentment. But she would not let go even when he encouraged her to.

Then perhaps, in obstinacy, they were equaled.

He saw their relationship like a glass half empty—she claimed doggedly that it was half full. He said she only wanted him for the challenge. He said that once she had won, once she had figured him out, that she wouldn't want him anymore. She said that he was crazy. And he simply agreed.

There was no arguing with Gregory House.

There simply wasn't. He never argued if he knew he might lose. His mind was as efficient and cold as a computer, perfectly crafted cogs turning and shifting in an analytical circle. He always knew what to say—always had the perfect come back, always had the answer. Since their game of cat and mouse had begun, she had learned this. If he consented to any kind of oral brawl, you were going to lose. And if you were going to win, he cut you off.

And that's how she knew it was alright.

When she had walked into his office before returning home, he had barely looked up from his hand-held video game. His pale eyes had given a disinterested flick in her direction but nothing more. She had walked slowly towards his desk, feeling as if her legs were made of lead. He still hadn't budged. She had rapped her knuckles against the grainy wood of his desk absently, her eyes fixed intently on the floor. Her mouth was set firmly, her jaw clenched. She simply waited.

He looked up. His eyes were probing and cold, two pools of stagnant rain water and just as empty. Two crevices on the surface of the icy moon. She had pretended not to notice how clear and cool his eyes were—how utterly uncaring. She had pretended not to wonder how and why he had completely detached himself from the world. And he in turn pretended to be objective. He had pretended that he didn't notice the startling clarity, the ethereal brightness in her eyes. He had pretended not to notice that she had pulled her hair up differently today—that the gentle curl of a loose tendril did not make her look more alluring. So they had remained silent.

Two actors placed on a stage.

Two pawns in a chessboard ready for the next move.

"I love you," she had said. She looked down quickly. She had waited for a reaction—some kind of declaration mirroring hers or a tangent and an outburst. She had expected bluntness, cold, hard, unrelenting verbal assaults. She had expected him to hold it over her head.

"I know." He had said. Terse and emotionless. It wasn't what she expected. And he didn't seem to care. He didn't seem to notice the way her jaw came momentarily unhinged. He didn't seem to notice the protean waves of emotion rolling through her. First shock at his lack of emotion. Second was anger at his lack of etiquette. And third and finally was an exasperated vexation.

"Don't you have anything to say?" Her voice was lilted with frustration, though she tried to control it. She had learned many things from him—but she had yet to acquire his skill of indifference. He had pursed his lips in a rueful smile, throwing his coat on and lurching to his feet with the aid of his cane.

"Yep," he began, and she could tell it wasn't what she wanted to hear. He began to limp towards the door, not looking her way. "If I don't get home soon I'm going to miss the new Grey's Anatomy." And with those words he left. She stood, dumbfounded, with her back against his desk, watching his awkwardly moving figure recede until he disappeared behind the metallic elevator doors. Their eyes had met for a second. Her face had fallen like a wilted flower—his was as lifeless as stone.

That was when things had changed.

Check and mate.

She awaited his arrival, the next day, anxiously. She had thrown herself at his feet and he kicked her away. She had held out her hand and he had ignored it. But still she made his coffee. Black. The way he liked it. Bitter, dark, and plain. She poured it into his mug like she always did, left it on the counter, and turned to look out the window. She lifted her own mug to her lips slowly, savouring the warmth. She heard the doors click behind her. She heard the irregular shuffling of feet and cane—heard the mug lifted from the sterile counter. He didn't speak. He didn't retreat to his office. Simply walked forwards a smidgeon and stood by her side, his shoulder touching hers.

"Good morning," she said. He took a sip of the black coffee and grunted. Probably code for 'depending on who you are.' She wanted to mention the other night. Wanted to know what he was thinking. Her eyes flickered in his direction to which there was no response. He took another sip of coffee, and she mimicked. "Are you…alright?" It was a dumb question. But she felt dumb. Dumb for thinking that his actions had been more than petty flirtations—dumb to have read anything in them at all. He shifted his cane in his hands.

"Still breathing," he responded quietly. She noticed how hoarse his voice sounded. She noticed the bags beneath his eyes. He hadn't slept much last night. He noticed how strained she looked. He noticed the extra creases in her complexion. She hadn't slept much, either. "Good coffee," said he, taking one last sip before placing the mug back on the counter. She nodded, smiling slightly, nervously. "Thank you."

"You're welcome." He nodded to her, his eyes catching hers for the first time since the other night. She thought she saw something in them—a play of the light, perhaps, to show emotion in two shards of cut glass, no doubt, inlaid surreptitiously in the facets of his skull in place of eyes. Eyes had emotion. His had none. Hers, however, implored him to say something more. To allow her to stop guessing, to stop wondering. If he didn't even like her in return she could get over it. If he did there was no problem. But she was wavering somewhere in limbo without a map.

She nodded back.

He beckoned her to his office after the day had ended. She had made up a thousand excuses. He had cleverly shot them all down. She tucked her hands into her pale coat pockets and stood rigid before his desk. He leaned leisurely against it, in the same position she had last night, the crook of his cane pressed against his forehead. His eyes were closed. "What do you want?" She inquired softly, swallowing. "Are you going to rub what I said yesterday in my face? Because I'll take it back. It was a mistake."

"Take it, then."

"What?"

"You said you would take it back. I implore you to do so." His voice was not as cold as usual—she had a feeling that if he opened his eyes they wouldn't be so hard. Something in his mannerism had changed. She dropped her eyes to the ground.

"Is that all, then?" She asked quietly, to which he had shaken his head in affirmation. She nodded again. He opened his eyes and nodded vaguely back. She turned to walk away.

"I can't give you love," came a voice from behind her. She halted, her fingers wrapped around the door handle. "I don't have love to give. If you're looking for a fairy-tale I can't give it to you. I can't offer you stability. I can't offer you money. I can't offer you a lifetime of happiness or even one night of it. I can't say that I can change and become kind and tender. I can't give you what you want." She heard him shifting, heard his scuffed up tennis shoes alternating with the muted thump of his cane. He stopped a few inches behind her; she felt his eyes on her, watching, evaluating, scrutinizing.

"How do you know that's what I want?" She asked, falteringly. She heard him sigh.

"You're human. Fortunately I have forsaken my moral compass and no longer need those things." He paused, he seemed to be thinking. She didn't dare to speak—she felt as if that tiny shard of Gregory House she held in her pocket was slowly growing, the tiny crack in ice around his heart expanding. She held her breath. "There are two things in life. There is want and there is need. You may want me for my hot body and dreamy blue eyes—" she smirked "—but you definitely do not need me. I'm not good for you. And I am a person who gives into need, not want. So if," here he paused, and she turned to face him. "_If_ there was some faint chance that I do _want_ you, it's irrelevant."

Her smile was soft and faint, a stark contrast to his pale, world-weary face. She dropped her eyes to the ground in silent revelation. What she wanted was the walls he put up to fall down—she wanted the distance he had put up between them to disappear. But that was just it. Those were personal desires.

And nothing with Gregory House was personal.

Gregory House didn't give way to desire.

So she was everything he wanted—everything he felt he could not have; did not deserve. Yet she was the only thing that completed him. She was the long missing piece of his puzzle—she was the one word the world's novelist had left out of his book. He needed her as much as he wanted her; but as a loyal pessimist, the latter outweighed the former. He held her at arms length. She nodded. He nodded. A mutual understanding passed between the two. She quirkily offered her hand to him in a silent peace treaty. They would both deal with their feelings in their own way. She would drown in them. He would ignore them. But neither would forget them.

He eyed her soft, pale fingers for a moment before shifting to lean on his cane and grasping her hand firmly. They shook, their eyes meeting, and they both nodded again. His hand was worn and calloused and cold; she stepped forwards. He stood still. In the eternal tango their dance steps were so—she would push, he would back up. But now he had backed into a wall and had nowhere to go.

Now he was stuck.

He had no clever anecdote or wry words to deter her as, their hands still clenched, she leaned upwards and touched her lips to his cheek. He swallowed and let her do it, sorely feeling that she had missed her target. He was the first to step backwards and make her move away from him. He gave her that same wane nod as he did when she got a diagnosis wrong—she gave him that same thin smile. As she stepped away she let go of his hand, and this time, he watched her go until she was swallowed by the elevator. He looked down at his suddenly empty hand.

There was no holding hands with Gregory House.


End file.
